The Abominable Host
by ko-writes
Summary: It seems all dark-haired intellectuals with blond companions have the same delusions. It's never a happy thing to see the person you care most about leave. (No knowledge of Sherlock or the recent special needed). TW: Drug use, overdosing and period-typical racism
1. Chapter 1

_I, Tamaki Suoh, had lived in England for a number of years before the events that had inevitably changed my life took place; not that I was always welcome, being half French and half Japanese, but I called it home nonetheless. I even entered the Queen's military as a doctor to make available my skills as a citizen of the dear British Empire._

 _However, the second Afghan War brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it meant nothing but misfortune and disaster._

* * *

He flinched as a shell exploded, not too far away, and earth rains down upon his head and back. His hands moved over the fallen soldier with gauze and precision, anything to stop yet another death; anything to save someone who had a single chance.

It was a doctor's duty, after all.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. He was used to a doctor's surgery, not the battlefield. In a doctor's surgery, there were no shells, no guns, no cannons…

No enemy solider aiming at a mere doctor. No crack as the shot was fired.

Pain tore through his shoulder, contorting the features. Blood seeped through his torn uniform as he fell to the ground, and one of his colleges dragged him to safety.

"Sir, are you alright?"

Tamaki gasped as he shot up in bed, face covered in sweat and shoulder groaning in protest.

He swore he could still see the explosions on the battlefield.

* * *

 _I returned to England after that fateful day, with my health irretrievably ruined and my future bleak._ _Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are drained._

"Tamaki-kun!"

Tamaki paused, leaning on his cane. How unusual it was to hear a Japanese honorific attached to his name these days, and he could swear he knew the voice. His nose scrunched against the scent of horse manure and factory emissions that always hung in the air, taking a few limping steps forward; it was probably his imagination running wild, not even a Japanese man would use honorifics in London, due to the hate received – it was the same reason why he hadn't spoken a single word of French, also. It's easier to accept the status-quo and borderline hatred, rather than stick to upbringing or traditions and encourage spite amongst your peers.

"Tamaki-kun!"

That call again.

He stopped once more, and turned towards the sound.

That man was certainly Japanese. He was running towards him, rare honey blonde hair bouncing and catching the sun as his short legs fought to catch up with the ex-army doctor; there was still a childlike smile on his lips, however.

Tamaki could swear that he knew him, but the name escaped his memory.

The man came to a stop in front of him, panting only slightly despite the distance he must have ran. "Tama-chan! Ah, I mean, suoh-san; Haninozuka Mitsukuni, remember?" He greeted, dimples deepening, "We attended Bart's together."

"Of course," Tamaki felt his own lips trying to quirk into a smile, but it was almost as if he'd forgotten how over the months. That was rather concerning. "Haninozuka."

He held out his hand to shake – embracing the standard English greeting – and felt Mitsukuni grip it firmly.

"Good Lord!" He announced, an almost mocking English accent coating his high voice, which Tamaki actually felt the urge to laugh at, "Where have you been? You're as thin as a rake!"

* * *

Standing at a table in the crowded bar of the Criterion, Tamaki recited the happenings of the last few months for his old friend and college - whom still insisted on being called Hani-senpai despite his age and current location.

"I made it home," Tamaki stated, regret colouring his tone, "Many weren't so lucky."

"So..." Hani began, "What now? Surely you have a plan, Tama-chan."

That was another thing that hadn't changed. 'Tama-chan'. For as much as it made Tamaki uncomfortable, given the circumstances, it was endearing.

"I need a place to live," He informed, "Somewhere decent and affordable isn't that easy to come across."

Hani chuckled, in an almost mature fashion, and took a drink from his glass of gin. Not even water was safe in this damned city. "Do you remember Takashi?" He asked.

Tamaki nodded after thinking briefly. Morinozuka Takashi; a big man with big muscles - the biggest, surprisingly, seemed to be his heart. The man was cousins with Hani, if he remembered correctly, and didn't waste words with idle conversations about the weather.

"He owns a few rooms now, on Baker Street; he makes a decent sum but they're fairly cheep," Hani informed. Tamaki almost frowned; Morinozuka showed a lot of promise and potential, so it was rather surprising that he'd limit himself to the role of landlord, "Another friend of mine, that I meet through Takashi, is about to move in and is looking for someone to go halves on the rent. The flat has two bedrooms, so you won't be sharing."

"Who is this friend?" Tamaki inquired.

* * *

When Hani had offered to introduce him to the mysterious 'friend', Tamaki had honestly expected a less… dank atmosphere, rather than an underground mortuary. The smell of death and chemicals seemed to be infused into the walls, despite them being made of stone.

There were also strange sounds coming from –

"Good lord!" Tamaki exclaimed, staring at the horrific sight with disgust. What sort of _animal_ …

"It's an experiment, apparently," Hani informed; though what sort of experiment involved repeatedly and violently flogging a corpse with a heavy walking stick escaped Tamaki, but Hani answered the unspoken question, "Beating corpses to establish how long after death bruising is still possible."

After a few more moments of uncomfortable observation, he turned and limped away from the disturbing sight. "Is there a medical point to that?" He asked.

"Not sure," Hani answered, a slight grimace, attempting to masquerade as a smile, on his lips.

"Neither am I," Tamaki informed blandly, his effort of showing happiness pushed aside by the man's apparent lack of respect for the dead, "So, where's this friend of yours, then?"

In answer, Hani stopped at the door of the room that the, seemingly mentally unstable, man was residing in, still beating the corpse with all of his strength. Tamaki bit down a swear as the realisation dawned unbearably clearly.

"Excuse me!" Hani called, hoping to disturb the man from his… work, but the flogging only increased in pace.

"I do hope we're not interrupting," Tamaki added, his voice strong from months in his military position.

The enigma of a man gave the corpse one last violent lash, before releasing a held breath and turning to face Tamaki and Hani.

Tamaki had to wonder if Hani surrounded himself with people of his ethnicity on purpose, or if the Japanaphobic comments made by the newspaper and average Londoners were correct and they really did tend to band together.

The man, who had yet to introduce himself, slicked back the stray strands of ink black hair that had obviously fallen whilst he attacked the body on the slab and looked Tamaki up and down with an analytical gaze.

"You've been in Afghanistan, I perceive," He stated, with all the emotion one puts into describing the weather, and turned away, reaching into his waistcoat for his pocket watch.

Hani took it upon himself to introduce the two, "Doctor Suoh, Mr Kyouya –"

However, the small man was cut off by the other man – Kyouya – unexpectedly tossing the walking stick at Tamaki, who instinctively reached out and caught it.

"Excellent reflexes," He complimented with a somewhat unsettling, false smile as he put his watch back in his pocket, "You'll do."

"I'm sorry?" Tamaki questioned, quite thrown by the turn the conversation – if it could be called that – had taken.

"I have my eye on a suite of rooms near Regent's Park," Kyouya continued, as if he hadn't heard Tamaki, "Between us we could afford them."

"Rooms?" Tamaki interrupted, louder this time, and glanced briefly at Hani, "Who said anything about rooms?"

"I did. I mentioned to Hani-senpai this morning I was in need of a fellow lodger. Now he appears after lunch in the company of a man of military aspect with a tan and recent injury, both suggestive of the campaign in Afghanistan and an enforced departure from it," The words were quick and one after another, but he took a quick breath before summarising, "The conclusion seemed inescapable."

Tamaki just stared, blinking owlishly with a slack jaw.

Kyouya flicked another quick glance at the blond before lowering his gaze with a small self-satisfied smile curling his lips. He pulled a longer breath. "We'll finalise the details tomorrow evening," He stated, not even asking Tamaki's opinion on the subject before walking towards the other two, forcing them to step aside as he walked in between them, and took his walking stick from Tamaki as he passed. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a hanging in Wandsworth that I must attend and I'd hate them to start without me," He bid, taking his coat from a nearby stand and slipped it over his narrow shoulders.

"A hanging?" Tamaki questioned, unease a still lingering taste in his mouth.

"I take a professional interest," Kyouya informed, "I also play the violin and smoke a pipe. I presume that's not a problem?"

Tamaki stuttered, caught off guard by the change of topic, "Um, no, well –"

Kyouya merely took his hat from the stand and smiled at him. "And you're clearly acclimatised to never getting to the end of a sentence. We'll get along splendidly," He joked, or at least Tamaki thought it was a joke, "Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock, then."

He started to turn away, about to leave before informing Tamaki of the most basic information, but then turned back, catching himself, "Oh, and the name is Kyouya Ootori and the address is two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street."

Without another word, he tugged his hat on and left the morgue.

"Yes," Hani nodded, drawing Tamaki's attention and breaking the uncomfortable silence, "He's always been like that."


	2. Chapter 2

The London streets were lightly dusted with the December snow, carollers sang in the streets, and the feeling of Yuletide settled in the air almost as thickly as the famous London fog.

The local news vendor – a small adolescent with dusty brown hair and a cold disposition – called out, "Papers! Papers!" Trying to raise his voice above the carollers and Christmas spirits to draw attention to the latest copy of The Strand with the visage of the so-called Great Kyouya Ootori printed on the front cover.

A hansom cab wound its way through the street with the clacks of horseshoe on cobblestone and the displacement of filth with the wheels.

"Papers! Papers!" The vendor continued to call.

The cab slowed beside the vendor before coming to a stop. Tamaki – healthier and happier since the time he had first met the detective – leaned out of the window and gestured to the vendor, who obediently approached him.

"How's 'The Blue Carbuncle' doing?" Tamaki asked, a smile permanently etched on his lips.

"Very popular, Doctor Suoh," The vendor informed, his voice holding a tone of professionalism, "Is there going to be a proper murder next time?"

Tamaki faltered, before answering with a hint of bland sarcasm – the sort of thing one becomes versed in if they spent a certain amount of time with his companion, "I'll have a word with the criminal classes."

"If you wouldn't mind," The vendor shrugs, having yet to show an ounce of emotion, before pointing to the second figure in the cab, sitting next to Tamaki, "Is that him? Is he in there?"

Obscured from view, for the most part, the other delivered a sharp kick to Tamaki's shin as the blond opened his mouth to speak.

Tamaki, biting down the obscene language he'd acquired in the military and had yet to rid himself of, waved off the young vendor's questions. "No. No, no, not at all," He assured, tipping his cap, "Ah, good day to you."

The cabbie shook the reins, calling for the horse to walk on yet again.

As the cab continued on its way, the vendor called after it with a slight smirk, "Merry Christmas, Mr Ootori!" Before going back to his work.

* * *

The cab pulled up beside the residence of the pair – Tamaki and Kyouya – and they gulped in unison as they saw Morinozuka-san on the doorstep with a hand planted on his hip and a disgruntled expression on his usually impassive features.

"You're going outside first," Tamaki informed his companion.

Kyouya's nose wrinkled slightly at the prospect of being the first to receive whatever ill-will Morinozuka-san was currently holding, but sighed. "You're a child," He threw at the blond before opening the cab door, noticing how terrified the cabbie seemed to be of their displeased landlord.

"Ootori-kun, I do wish you'd let me know when you're planning to come home," Morinozuka-san sighed at the shorter man.

The houseboy, a small boy with brunette hair and a bad personality, leisurely strolled toward Tamaki, who seemed to have gathered enough courage to leave the cab and begin unloading their bags.

Kyouya smiled slightly at Morinozuka-san. "I hardly knew myself, Morinozuka-san. That's the trouble with dismembered country squires – they're notoriously difficult to schedule," He informed with an air of victory and satisfaction, as he was still basking in the feeling of finishing a case before the beginning of stagnation, and clamped his pipe between his teeth before turning to pay the cabbie.

The young boy turned to Tamaki, staring at the bag he was holding. "What's in there?" He demanded, pouting like a spoilt brat.

"Never mind," Tamaki drew out, cautioning the boy with the gaze of an ex-army captain.

The brunette just shrugged and went to take some of the other bags inside, before stopping briefly. "Did you catch a murderer, Mr Ootori?" He asked.

"Caught the murderer; still looking for the legs," Kyouya answered cryptically, "Think we'll call it a draw."

The boy frowned; entering the house with the bags while Kyouya trailed behind, pipe still between his teeth.

Morinozuka-san closed his eyes and let out another sigh before turning to Tamaki. "And I notice you've published another of your stories, Doctor Suoh," He observed. Another thing Tamaki had noticed about Morinozuka-san; he'd become more conversational over the years, probably a result of his occupation.

"Yes," Tamaki nodded, beaming, "Did you enjoy it?"

After an awkward moment, Morinozuka-san answered honestly, "No."

Morinozuka-san entered the house with Tamaki closely in tow, a confused expression. "Oh?" The blond inquired, fighting the urge to sit in the corner and pout.

"I never enjoy them," Morinozuka-san informed blandly.

Tamaki pushed the door closed behind him, his bewildered expression deepening. "Why not?" He asked.

A little way into the hallway, Kyouya shrugged off his coat and hat, rolling his eyes at his companion and landlord's pointless conversation; his high from the case dwindling with each syllable. He hung the items on the hook provided and walked further into the hall.

"Well, I never say anything, do I?" Morinozuka-san huffed, hand returning to his hip, "According to you, I just show people up the stairs and serve you breakfasts."

Hanging up his own coat and hat, Tamaki opened his mouth without thinking; crushing Kyouya's good mood once and for all. "Well, within the narrative, that is – broadly speaking – your function," The blond nodded, brushing past the taller man.

"My what?" Morinozuka-san demanded, eyes narrowing dangerously. Tamaki began to panic at the taller man's expression, knowing full well that he could beat him to the ground in a matter of seconds.

"Don't feel singled out, Morinozuka-san," Kyouya sighed, waving away the tension of the room, "I'm hardly in the dog one."

"'The dog one'?!" Tamaki almost shrieked, showing himself as the overly dramatic writer he was.

"I'm your landlord, not a plot device," Morinozuka-san informed, pointedly; even going as far as wagging a finger at Tamaki, who clearly wasn't even listening.

Kyouya heaved a sigh; why did he of all people become attached to absolute buffoons? Well, to be fair to Morinozuka-san, he didn't usually talk this much, and thus was less of an irritant.

He made his way up the stairs to their set of rooms, not bothering to attempt politeness after the drain of working with the police force, and especially not after the unscheduled crash in his mood.

"Do you mean 'The Hound of the Baskervilles'?!" Tamaki yelled after him, but he tuned the emotional tirade out lest he reach for the morphine so soon.

"And you make the room so drab and dingy," Morinozuka-san continued, not listening to Tamaki either. Tune it out, Ootori; just ignore the idiots…

"Oh, blame it on the illustrator," Tamaki snapped, following his raven haired companion, "He's out of control."

"Be sure to get some rest, Morinozuka-san," Kyouya called downstairs, "You're talking too much and setting my nerves on edge."

Morinozuka-san had the decency and self-control to sigh, and let it go. For now, at least.

* * *

 _Over the many years it has been my privilege to record the exploits of my remarkable friend, Mr Kyouya Ootori, it has sometimes been difficult to choose which of his many cases to set before my readers._ _Some are still too sensitive to recount, whilst others are too recent in the minds of the public._ _But in all our many adventures together, no case pushed my friend to such mental and physical extremes as that of The Abominable Host._

* * *

Feeling utterly exhausted from the sudden absence of adrenaline, Kyouya just trudged to the window, flinging open the curtain in the effort to clear the room of its musty smell and allow himself to see what he was doing.

Tamaki just brought the bags to their small living space and set them by the door. He smiled slightly, happy to see his companion letting light in for a change.

However, his long awaited peace and tranquillity suddenly left him as, with the light of the final window, a figure was revealed in front of the fireplace.

"Good Lord!" Tamaki gasped, before getting over the sudden shock and forcing his legs to carry him into the room.

The figure – seemingly female, if the feminine mourning clothes were anything to go by, forgetting the flat chest – was clad in black, a heavy lace veil, of the same colour, obscuring 'her' face. She faced the fire with her hands clasped neatly behind her back.

She turned in her own time, but it seemed to be brought about by Tamaki's exclamation.

Kyouya just gritted his teeth, storming passed the figure and to the door. "Morinozuka-san, there is a woman in my sitting room!" He ejaculated, "Is it intentional?"

"She's a client!" Said landlord called from the hallway below, "I said you were out; but she insisted on waiting."

Kyouya muttered unsavoury language in Japanese under his breath, a grimace on his face. Meanwhile, Tamaki – the more thoughtful of the two, at least when it came to emotions of fellow human beings – picked up one of the chairs from by the table and offered it to the supposed woman with the charming smile he had a reputation for.

"Would you, um, care to sit down?" He offered, but she made no move or vocalisation to answer him.

"Didn't you ask her what she wanted?" Kyouya called to the landlord again, his temper flairing sooner than expected. Where was the damn morphine when he needed it?

"You ask her!" Came the petulant reply, though completely in Morinozuka-san's rights.

"Well, why didn't you ask her?" Was the retort, equally petulant but less deserved.

"How could I, what with me not talking and everything?" Was the tetchy answer, and no more was yelled between the two. Kyouya just rolled his eyes and sighed, turning and walking back into the sitting room.

"Give him some lines. He's perfectly capable of starving us," He murmured to Tamaki, who fought the grimace as he realised it was perfectly true, and walked towards the woman with a professional smile, "Good afternoon. I'm Kyouya Ootori. This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Tamaki Suoh. You may speak freely in front of him, as he rarely understands a word."

"Kyouya!" Tamaki whined, before remembering himself and scratching the back of his head with a nervous laugh.

"However, before you do, allow me to make some trifling observations," Kyouya smirked at the woman, walking closer to her and circling around her like a predator would their prey, while all the while, she impassively, "You have an impish sense of humour which currently you're deploying to ease a degree of personal anguish."

He moved towards Tamaki, circling around him in the same manner while still addressing the silent woman, "You have recently married a man of a seemingly kindly disposition who has now abandoned you for an unsavoury companion of dubious morals. You have come to this agency as a last resort in the hope that reconciliation may still be possible."

"Good Lord, Kyouya!" Tamaki exclaimed, awe in his voice and sparkling in his eyes; he did so enjoy Kyouya's work.

"All of this is, of course, perfectly evident from your perfume," He stated, fighting a knowing smirk.

"Her perfume?" The blonde frowned, instantly perplexed.

"Yes, her perfume," Kyouya repeated, fighting the grin that wished to form on his lips, "Which brings insight to me and disaster to you."

"How so?" The blond inquired.

Kyouya stepped towards the woman, unfastening her veil and removing it from her face. "Because I recognised it and you did not," He stated simply, walking away so he didn't obstruct his companion's view.

"Haruhi!" Tamaki cheered, a luminous beam on his face.

"Tamaki," She smiled in return, a simple upturn of lips.

"Nice to see you looking like a lady for once," Kyouya commented, the couple ignored him.

Tamaki's smile gave way to a look of bewilderment, and Kyouya celebrated his friend's brain cells functioning once more. "Why, in God's name, are you pretending to be a client?" He asked.

"Because I could think of no other way to see my husband, Husband," Haruhi said pointedly; Tamaki just gulped.


End file.
